


The 6th of January

by Zigster



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Cup of Tea - Freeform, Happy Birthday Sherlock, I never knew when your birthday was, M/M, Season/Series 4, angst laced with happiness, birthday scene, now you do, possibly cake
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-07
Updated: 2018-01-07
Packaged: 2019-03-01 09:41:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13292151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zigster/pseuds/Zigster
Summary: Happy Birthday, Sherlock....The birthday/deduction scene redo.





	The 6th of January

**Author's Note:**

> This little tidbit takes place right as John is making his deduction at the end of season four. I ask you please, dear reader, to live in that moment alone, and ignore any ghosts that may be lurking or any resolution that may follow beyond that moment. This version takes us down a slightly more Johnlock-centric path, which, at least to me, is much more satisfying. I hope you enjoy.

_"Happy Birthday."_

_"Thank you John. That's very kind of you."_

_"Never knew when your birthday was."_

_"Now you do."_

* * *

Sherlock, face still healing, his left iris rimmed in red with the ever-changing blue standing out in startling contrast, attempts to hide his emotions behind his tea cup. John spots the tell-tale crinkling around his eyes all the same. _When had John become so observant_ , Sherlock wonders. 

The moment hangs heavy in the air; a melancholy type of feeling seeping in through the walls, the floorboards, the windowpanes, swirling around their feet and up their ankles, like an encroaching tide. Sherlock, not wanting to drown, stands from his chair, looking for an excuse to leave the room and John's suddenly too-perceptive gaze. Has he always been this way? Did Sherlock simply not see that John could read his very soul as if Sherlock had left his heart out on the kitchen table with telling notes pinned to every chamber and vein leading directly to the source? 

Sherlock watches John reach to stop him, and some kind of base, human instinct he by no means has power over causes Sherlock to flinch away from the touch. In an instant, he sees the self-loathing coloring John's features and curses the traitorous reactions of his body. Sherlock wastes no time, taking back control of his transport, and moves to grab John's now fisted hand, holding it with his long fingers in a gentle grasp. 

John's head has fallen to his chest, his breaths pushing out through his nostrils in a pained rythm. He pinches the bridge of his nose with his free hand and shakes himself, his hair falling from its pushed back state in the process. Sherlock itches to stroke it back off his forehead but stands frozen in place, his fingers still gently holding onto John's fist. 

"Sherlock . . ."

"John, it's --" 

"No, it's not!" 

Sherlock swallows, lifts his chin and prepares for the tirade. 

It never comes. 

John breathes deeply, turning to face his friend and his demons, head on. The man who is more important to him than any spouse could ever have been waits as John places his smaller, stronger right hand over the delicate one clasping his left. He squeezes Sherlock's elegant, strong fingers, looking for assurance where he knows he deserves none but is seeking just the same. 

"Please, Sherlock. I know I'm in no place to ask for favours, but. Forgive me." 

Sherlock stares at the man before him, the only true friend he's ever had and wonders how John could ever have come to hate himself as much as to think that Sherlock would not take him back; wouldn't accept his apology and his care once more. 

"Of course, John." 

This apparently is the wrong answer because John huffs in frustration and moves away, their joined hands falling back to their respective sides. Sherlock tells himself that the loss isn't an acute pain he can feel within his very soul. 

"I don't deserve your apology, Sherlock." 

"You deserve everything." 

John's head snaps up, out of his introspection like a bat from a cave at dusk. He searches Sherlock's eyes, his beautiful, blood-stained eyes for the truth and finds an unconditional love where he expects to witness hate. It cuts John to the quick and he pushes his hair off his forehead with a rasp of breath and a grunt of exasperation. 

"I don't." 

"You do."

Sherlock steps forward, his hands coming to rest on John's shoulders, stilling him. 

"We've seen each other at our worst, John. You've found me standing before the doors of hell as I pushed death into my veins and somehow managed to pull me back." 

"You needed help. I'm a doctor." 

"Yes. A very good one." 

John laughs a mirthless laugh and shakes his head. "Yes." 

"You've saved my life more times than I care to count." 

A somber shoulder lifts in response. "Someone needed to." 

Sherlock nods. "But no one, not even my brother has ever cared as you have, John. You put me right. You keep me whole. You are the reason I came back. You're the reason I'm still here." 

John blinks, his eyes watering, and he lowers his head, no doubt hiding the emotion from Sherlock. The proud solider that he is, John Watson is not one who easily cries in front of company. Sherlock allows him his moment of privacy, his thumbs rubbing at the curves of his shoulders, pressing into the tired muscle. 

"You abandoned me," John says, his voice pained.

"Yes. I did. It was for a reason, but I'm still sorry for it. Every day."

"And I abandoned you right back."

"I don't think that was a calculated effort on your part, John. You had to move on."

John laughs again, but this time, there's a bit of spirit in the sound. He lifts his head, his eyes wet but clear. 

"Do you know what I'd like to do today?" Sherlock asks. 

John sniffs, his expression open, questioning. 

"I'd like a piece of cake." 

A snort greets this statement and John finds himself shaking his head, and stepping forward into the warmth of Sherlock's embrace. Long arms enfold around him, bracing the back of his waist and cupping the nape of his neck. Sherlock smells of exotic tea leaves and tobacco and John is reminded of the warm sands of a desert he's long left behind in another life. How many lives has he turned the page on to start again afresh? How many times has he closed the door on pasts he'd rather not remember but knows will mark him for the rest of his days? He can count three in his mind, and knows that if he allows, he'll step forward into a new chapter of life that will include Sherlock and will (hopefully) be free of loss. He can always hope, it's one of the things that has yet to be beaten out of his battered, storm-weathered soul. After all, the bravery of a solider includes the fairytale dream of hope. 

"What kind of cake would you like, Sherlock?" 

The question is mumbled into blue silk, but Sherlock hears it just the same, though he doesn't loosen his hold on John. He pushes closer, his arms tightening and his head bending to nuzzle at John's freshly shaven neck. He hums to himself in thought, the sound vibrating through them both. John's fingers twitch against Sherlock's sides. 

"Chocolate? Cream? Banoffee pie." 

"That's not cake."

"No, it isn't."

A smile is pressed into Sherlock's shoulder, and it feels like acceptance and atonement swirled together in a glass of champagne. It's a toast to a new year, a new life, and a new beginning for the two men who will hopefully always occupy the scruffy flat above a small cafe on an unassuming street in central London. 

 

 

\- fin - 

* * *

 

 

Happy Birthday, Sherlock. 

. 

. 

. 

I painted a little watercolor of our favorite Sherlock this morning in homage of the character's birthday and posted it [**here**](https://zigster-ao3.tumblr.com/image/169395470847), in case y'all would like to see. 

Update: Wasn't happy with how Sherlock's face turned out so I tried again. You can view the study [here.](https://zigster-ao3.tumblr.com/image/169448521767)

Thank you for reading. 

And Thank you, Sir. Arthur Conan Doyle for giving us our favorite husbands. We're forever grateful. 

 


End file.
